If
by LadyArin
Summary: Alternate universe fic told from eight different perspectives. K-plus to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**If  
**  
Prologue

It all happened so fast.

The two Sith Lords walked right into the trap the Jedi had prepared outside Chibias, totally unprepared for the assault the Republic's ships unleashed on them. It had not taken much time to identify the flagships belonging to Revan, Malak and Karath and select their target. In the confusion of crossfire, the small fighters had easily bypassed the fearsome warship's defenses and the strike team had boarded. They had had to fight dozens - scores - of highly-trained Sith to reach the bridge, but the rushing adrenaline combined with the intense concentration of battle made the time fly. It came almost as a shock to find themselves just outside the doors of the command center, but there had been no time to waste in letting it sink in; one of them sliced open the door, and another wave of Dark Jedi came charging at them. Then Bastila had seen the Sith Master behind them, pacing.

Malak. Not Revan; Malak.

There had been no time to do anything but fight. Even while concentrating on her Battle Meditation, Bastila could hear her heart pounding and wondered where the mistake had been made. Then the last Dark Jedi fell - along with two of the light Jedi sent to help her - and Malak stood alone, furiously silent, the familiar sound of a lightsaber igniting cutting through the ship's alarms. Bastila drew closer to her remaining allies, painfully aware of how few they were, and stared with undisguised dread. He was bathed in the dark side like a Hutt in slime, its power pulsing through him and tainting the very air around him. He radiated brutality, cruelty, coldness, hatred, fury - and power. Pure power, the like of which Bastila had never sensed before, not so close. She could feel the tempting tendrils of the dark side tugging at her, and shuddered. The very idea of becoming like the inhuman monster before her made her blood boil. But, at the same time ...

"If you join me, you will taste power like nothing the Jedi could teach you." Malak's voice, deep though altered by the voice synthesizer, resounded throughout the room.

"Never." Bastila surprised herself with the resolve in her voice. "You cannot win, Malak." The Sith Lord laughed. Someone next to her inhaled. She tightened her grip on her lightsaber.  
She felt a warning in the Force only a split second before the floor was thrown out from under them. The ship reeled from the blast, trembling like a leaf, whimpering like a wounded kath hound. Even Bastila, who knew little about the construction of starships, knew this was a very bad sign. _Thank the Force, someone got a direct hit on this behemoth! _Her relief gave way to heart-racing alarm: they had to get off, _now_. She dragged herself to her feet quickly, noting with surprise how relatively uninjured she was.

The same could not be said of the bridge. Some of the explosions that shook the ship so violently had taken place here - shards of metal, plasteel and other now-unrecognizable materials were everywhere. At least one terminal was on fire. One whole wall had gone out, only black debris showing where the circuitry had been. A huge roof girder had fallen, and someone was pinned under it. The realization of who it was hit her like a lightning-bolt before she was even halfway there. She knelt next to the prostrate form of the Dark Lord. Unconscious, he looked much less intimidating, much smaller. Blood flowed from several places; a lot of blood. Bastila could sense the small remaining spark of life in him flickering, fading, like a holo-image being deleted. Soon the Sith Lord would be no more, just another casualty of the war he and Revan had started.

There was only one moment in which to decide.

A/N - Like many fellow fanfic authors, i long for and dread reviews. Please comment, and if you don't like it, please be gentle. I promise to be reasonable - honest!

This is a complete story, but i may want to edit one or two chapters before posting them, but if people are interested i will post more.


	2. Chapter 2

1: Taris

Something about this mission stunk, and it wasn't just the apartment. Carth had been suspicious when the Jedi took over - but all right, it didn't take much to get him suspicious. To be perfectly honest, some people even called him paranoid. But the Jedi had been awful close-lipped, even for Jedi, and practically took over the ship, making him more like an adviser than commander. They told him almost nothing about where they were going and what they were doing, brushing off his questions with vague statements like "We haven't determined", "Nothing specific in mind", "Not a concern", "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you" - which only made him angry. He hadn't gotten this position by "not worrying" about things that had to do with his own ship.

Then, despite the Jedi presence and all-but-complete command of the ship, they were _still_ taken by surprise, and the whole ship and almost the entire crew lost in a overwhelming ambush. He had gotten off, barely, with a low-level grunt fresh out of recruitment - the one, incidentally, that the Jedi had specifically requested be transferred to the _Endar Spire_.  
It _could_ be just coincidence. It _could _be just coincidence that Senn Tarapmoranis could wield any weapon, ranged or melee, that he picked up like nobody's business. It _could_ be just coincidence that, despite having a nasty attitude as obvious as his fake jaw, he could talk anyone into anything, whether it be their life story or more credits. It _could_ be just coincidence that he was the one that found the gullible Sith chick, picked up the uniforms, blustered his way past the guards and found a way into the Under City.

Just coincidence? Not the h- likely.

"Onasi! You gotta sleep, do it on your own time."

Carth barely dodged the helmet lobbed at his head, and managed to repress a groan as his comrade-in-arms entered the dorm. "I wasn't sleeping, Tarapmoranis." How the kid could have thought he would be able to sleep in the heart of the Black Vulkar base was beyond him. Those thugs shot at anything that looked like it might be moving, or even thinking about moving sometime in the near future.

Tarapmoranis dropped onto his bunk and yanked open his pack, not even pausing to glower in Carth's direction. "Oh, don't tell me you're still p****d about that whole Gadon assassination thing from yesterday?"

_Now that you mention it ..._ "Oh, of course not. It was a whole eighteen local hours ago, how could I possibly still be upset?"

"Shut it, Onasi. I don't see you doing anything to find this Jedi of yours."

"She isn't _my_ anything, and has it occurred to you that maybe I don't help you out because I object to plans that involve excessive violence?"

"'Excessive violence'? What are you, my _mother_? We're at war_, _Onasi."

"I _know_ what war is, _Ensign_ - I've been a Republic officer my whole adult life, but being a soldier does not mean every solution involves hitting something with a stick until it does what you want!"

"Now _there's_ an idea - do you think that Twirler brat might stop sniffling if I pounded her with the flat of my vibroblade?"

Carth took a moment to gauge how serious Tarapmoranis was. "There's no need to go beating up on a kid. I'll talk to her, all right?"

"Good. Keep her out of my hair while I get ready for this swoop race, so I can rescue what's-her-name. Basilisk?"

"Bastila," Carth said, after taking a moment to unclench his teeth.

"Right. Her." Tarapmoranis finally got what he wanted dug out of his pack, and took a swig from a small vial. He glanced at Carth, his expression unreadable but not totally hostile. "You met her, right?"

"Once or twice." _Where are you going with this, Tarapmoranis?_

"Is she hot?"

Later, Carth wondered if leaving the room before he introduced Tarapmoranis' head to the internal wiring was really the wiser option.


	3. Chapter 3

2: Dantooine

Bastila had always found solace in the peaceful open meadows and gentle streams of Dantooine, but hours of meditation in the fields could not soothe her now. In the weeks since she had been "reunited" with Senn Tarapmoranis on Taris, he had had a deteriorating effect on her nerves, and with this new mission from the Council, she wondered if the damage would be irreparable.

She took a deep breath of the fresh air, and reminded herself that she had only an hour before the_ Ebon Hawk_ took off for Kashyyyk, the first stop in the next stage of their mission. Senn had chosen it rather authoritatively; almost - the thought made her shudder - tyrannically. He hadn't objected when she said she would be taking a walk first, however, so he wasn't a complete control freak. Yet.

The winds picked up, brushing the long grasses against the folds of her robes. Bastila lowered herself to the ground, reaching out to feel the soft grasses rub against her hands in the breeze. So far, Senn had shown all the signs of having accepted the false memories implanted in him. He might speak disrespectfully of the Masters behind their backs, resist every order they gave him and spend all his time complaining about the way they pushed him around, but he never spoke of being held back, or threatened to kill anyone. Master Zhar had spoken of this behavior with hope.

_Easy enough for him,_ a voice in the back of her head whispered. _He isn't the one charged with keeping a former Sith Lord on the light path._

Bastila pushed the voice aside, and tried to refocus. The sun was a few hours from setting, but the sky was already changing colors - from pale, almost white-blue in the west to dark indigoes in the east, where the first stars would soon be visible. In the highest atmospheres, countless clouds floated past according to a different wind, looking like tufts of parella blossom pulled into thin, fluffy strips. An evening setting common to Dantooine, indistinguishable from many from her childhood.

It had been months since she had last been here, and she wondered how much longer it would be until they returned. None of the crew seemed sad to leave, so the chances of returning before the mission ended were probably small. As for the mission - the strange "Star Map" they had found in the ruins had the coordinates of four planets, but nothing said those other planets had Star Maps on them, much less ones that would work and provide more of the incomplete data. It would take _weeks_ just to travel to each planet, and conducting planet-wide searches for ancient ruins of a civilization no one had ever heard of could take _years_. Not to mention that Revan and Malak had probably destroyed or hidden all the clues they had found as a preemptive strike against exactly this kind of mission.

_You are focusing on the negative. Be mindful of your thoughts._

Bastila inhaled deeply, crushing her anxiety like her Masters had taught her to do. It was true, the mission was difficult - but the Force was with them. Senn had overcome significant obstacles to find and rescue her - however questionable his methods had been - and their crew, though ... eclectic, had many useful skills between them. Another Jedi would be joining them - Juhani, a Cathar Senn had convinced to return to the Order (she couldn't imagine how, or why, he had done it - but it was a promising sign). And the Council would not have given her this mission if they thought her incapable of completing it, she reminded herself.

She smiled, finally feeling at peace. The mission may have had a rocky beginning, but that did not dictate the future. At this moment, she thought she could even get along with Senn -

"_There_ you are! I've been looking for hours!" Senn shouted from behind her, his voice sharp with irritation. "Come _on_ already! If you haven't already seen enough grassland for the rest of your life, the sooner we get going, the sooner you can come back here and meditate to your little heart's content!"

It took every ounce of Jedi peace to keep Bastila from turning around and chewing Senn Tarapmoranis' head off. "Coming, Senn."


	4. Chapter 4

3: Kashyyyk

The stuff that came out of the food synthesizer was gray, texturally inconsistent, and oozed out of the dispenser like a Salavia slug during the molting season. Jolee sniffed it cautiously, paused to make a very expressive grimace and regain control of his gag reflex, then dumped the cup into the nearest trash receptacle. He checked the nearby halls for the Mandalorian - impressive soldier, but like all of his kind, didn't believe in showering until people around them literally started upchucking - then headed in the direction he considered most likely to have real food.

Baldy (_I'm old, d-t, I can't be bothered to learn these youngsters' names!_) entered the hallway from another direction at almost the same time. "Watch where you're going, old man."  
Jolee considered re-nicknaming the kid 'Attitude', or maybe 'Smartmouth'. "I _am_ watching, d-t! I can't help it if you kids insist on sneaking around and jumping in front of helpless old geezers who can't move that fast any more."

Baldy/Smartmouth stared at him for a moment. Jolee took the moment to study him more closely in the hallway light - not that he hadn't done it on Kashyyyk, but they didn't call it the 'Shadowlands' for nothing. He was young (to Jolee, anyone under 55 was young), but he looked older than he probably was, with a slight grayish tint to the skin, and a few premature wrinkles forming near the eyes. His eyes were defiant, and dropped a few hints about a smoldering inner fire. There was a barely noticeable golden tinge to them.

It had been a while, but not long enough for Jolee to forget what these signs hinted toward. That, and the way the rest of the crew treated him like a gallon barrel of Peragian fuel; even Princess, the ostensible 'head' of the mission (never mind she was barely out of the nursery).

Whatever his other flaws, Smartmouth's eyes worked just fine. "What are you starin' at?"

"Staring? Was I staring? Sorry, old eyes, you know. Sometimes I can't make out my own hand in front of my face; or maybe it's those giant moths in the Shadowlands. Pah, _there's_ a pest for you. Turn on anything brighter than a plasma torch, and - "

Smartmouth rolled his eyes. "I'm not bringing you along to ramble at the drop of a hat, old man." He started to push past Jolee, then stopped. "Why _are_ you here, anyway?"

Jolee glanced back at the food synthesizer. "Well, it ain't for the food, Sonny, I can tell you that."

"Huh?" Smartmouth looked between Jolee and the food synthesizer, looked puzzled, then shook his head and moved on. "I didn't say why _aren't_ you here, I said why _are_ you here?"

"Did you now? My hearing must be going."

"D-t!" Smartmouth shouted, pounding his fist on the wall. Jolee could feel the floor vibrate, ever so slightly. "Give me a straight answer for once in your life, or I'll shorten it by a few decades!"

Jolee shook his head, chuckling softly. "If that's how you conduct all your affairs, Sm-Sonny, sometime soon someone's going to shorten _your_ life by more than a few decades. And if you ask me, threatening a tough old bird who's lived on the ground floor of Kashyyyk for longer than you've been alive doesn't strike me as the safest option."

Smartmouth looked startled. "Is that a threat?"

"Now you're not suggesting _I'm_ threatening a powerful youth like you, are you? I mean, a senile old man like me? What chance would _I_ have against a strong ... well-built fellow like yourself, who's been wielding that shiny stick for a good two months now? Why, I must weigh a good two hundred pounds less than you! Who knows how much longer I could have lasted in those Shadowlands if you hadn't come along like a one-man herd of bantha, chasing off all the vicious beasties with all the racket you were making - "

Jolee watched in well-disguised amusement as Smartmouth opened his mouth, his veins bulging fit to bust, then deflated as Jolee kept going, then turned on his heel and stalked off, making enough noise for two herds of bantha. He waited until he heard the doors to the engine room shut, then chuckled.

It was only a momentary amusement. He was old, but he could still put two and two together, and the mess Smartmouth had made of Kashyyyk was only likely to increase exponentially around the galaxy. He might not be able to do much about it, but staying hermited in the Shadowlands wasn't going to cut it either. And who knew? The kid could change. Not the h- likely, but could happen.

_Now. Where was I going?_


	5. Chapter 5

4: Manaan

Juhani disliked Manaan. It had a cold, clinical feel to it - natural, perhaps, for an entirely metal city constructed over the water, whose primary export was kolto - and smelled of Selkath, water and Sith. Her passionate nature clashed with the unfeeling, immutable law system, her quick temperament flared when it met with the dispassionate logic of the Selkath, and every hair on her skin stood up when she got a glimpse of the ocean, which was everywhere. And, of course, there were the Sith too.

She had tried to stay on the ship, but Senn Tarapmoranis had specifically requested her to come with him to fight his way into the Sith base, and she had been itching for a chance to release all the tension building up in her, before her rage overcame her judgment again and landed her in a predicament Tarapmoranis would not be quick to rescue her from.

When she had first met the Jedi Padawan, his refusal to kill her had deeply impressed her. In the despair of the moment, his words of encouragement had been a beacon, and the admiration a gifted man like him had offered her for her own combat skills a testament to his generosity. At his side, with his guidance, she had thought herself less likely to fall again. It had not taken her long to discover he had completely different motives underlying each action, but it was still too late. She could not abandon the mission, or abandon the others to Tarapmoranis' capriciousness, but she was afraid.

Tarapmoranis was what Carth would call a warrior; he took delight in the battle itself, and didn't trouble himself much with the whys behind it. When he fought, he didn't bother with strategy or subtlety, but charged into the fray with reckless abandon, resorting to whatever techniques would kill his opponent the fastest. After every fight, she could smell his ecstasy and blood-lust, and saw that for several hours afterward, he would watch for an opportunity to fight, and kill, again. He brushed off Bastila's reprimands, mocked her Jedi platitudes, and threatened members of his own crew as quickly and as ruthlessly as he did Sith who challenged him in the streets. If it hadn't been for the smoother tongues and cooler heads of Carth, Bastila, Jolee, and even at times (reluctant as Juhani was to admit it) Canderous, he would have been executed by the Selkath within ten minutes of his setting foot on Manaan.

And, slowly but subtly, Tarapmoranis was influencing the rest of the crew. Already they felt less outraged with each outrageous offense he committed, just a sort of weary resignation. Just the other day, she had heard Carth say to Jolee, "Well, at least it wasn't as bad as it could have been." Juhani had been alarmed at such acceptance, but not as alarmed as she was when she discovered a part of her agreed with Carth. Even Bastila, star Padawan Bastila, had allowed several negative behaviors to pass without comment, and even _supported_ Tarapmoranis once. Juhani couldn't just leave; she had to stay, offer support, and hope that it would be enough to keep them on the light path, and maybe keep Tarapmoranis from total darkness.

A fear was growing in her gut, however, that all that would happen was she would watch Tarapmoranis fall into the abyss of the Dark Side, and drag them all down with him.


	6. Chapter 6

5: Tatooine

Tatooine got just as cold at night as it got hot during the day, so Mission didn't set foot off the ship. Lately, she hadn't even left her room.

Griff was dead.

"Your brother was scum," Senn had said earlier that day. "Greedy, money-grubbing, worthless scum who probably has more debts than the Galactic Senate. He abandoned you for his table-dancing schutta of a girlfriend, who drop-kicked him when he couldn't pay for her Coruscant-style life. He ended up on this dustball, the a-hole of the galaxy, hit rock bottom and started digging. You're better off without him. The _galaxy's_ better off without him. Besides, he was asking for it - I saved his pathetic waste of a life, and he hits me up for _credits_? What, does he think I do that kind of thing for _free_? Is my lightsaber just for show? I swear, no one gives me proper respect, no matter where I go."

At the time, Mission had been ready to agree with every word Senn had said. They had gone to all that effort to get Griff out of the Sand People camp, and he had asked her for credits - right after admitting that he had left her behind on Taris. He said he had every intention of going back to get her, once he found enough credits, but she found she'd sooner believe Revan had taken a day off from the war to save a basketful of gizka than the words of that Huttspawn. It had been a _relief_ that he was gone; he wasn't ever going to hit her up for credits again, never get himself in more trouble with his debts, never going to do something that would make her ashamed he was her brother.

And yet ... Griff was her _brother_.

She remembered the lessons he had so carefully taught her on Taris - how to recognize a good mark, how to crack locks, the right way and the wrong way to hold a security tunneler, the gangs to avoid and the gangs it was okay to tag along with, safe places to hide when security forces or Black Vulkars came after her, tricks that would keep her out of the hands of slave traders. With what he had taught her, she had survived for years on a planet where full-grown members of hardier species ended up dying, broke and starved, in weeks. He hadn't been all he could have been, but he had taught her right all the same.

On the other hand, what had Senn Tarapmoranis been to her? He had regarded her as a nuisance since the first day they met, brushing off her overtures of friendship in Javyar's cantina with a cold, "Leave me alone, kid." At various times, she had heard him refer to her as a brat, a pest, a hindrance, sometimes even to her face. He had hinted very strongly about leaving her behind on Dantooine, giving in only when Zaalbar had insisted that she come along. If he ever sought her out, it was just because he had something he wanted her to open that he couldn't bother to open himself, or he was bored and wanted to play pazaak to pass the time.

Senn had taught her nothing, but asked for just as much from her as Griff ever had. And now she was still on his ship, eating his food, using tools he'd bought with his own money.

Suddenly, Mission didn't care how hot or cold Tatooine's surface got, or if she got sand everywhere in her clothes. She didn't think she could stand one more minute on this d- ship.


	7. Chapter 7

6: Leviathan

The announcement Bastila had for them after leaving the _Leviathan_ in their wake did not bother Canderous in the least. The hot-headed thug with a lightsaber could call himself Senn Tarapmoranis, Darth Malak or Daisy Ramirez. He was a force to be reckoned with, a wizard with weapons, and as long as his heart kept beating he was likely to stir up the kind of trouble Canderous liked to handle. Besides, he had a great ship.

There had been quite the uproar among the others, though. In the end, Bastila had pointed out they had only one choice - keep going. Tarapmoranis wasn't going to win any congeniality or Best Jedi of the Year awards any time soon, but he was their only hope for defeating Revan and destroying the Star Forge, and what could be said to that? The Cathar had agreed reluctantly, then stomped off to storm in some other part of the ship. The Wookiee and Twi'lek kid had retreated to the dormitories. The hermit they had picked up on Kashyyyk took Bastila aside for a private word; Canderous couldn't imagine what he had to say, though, as he had remained wordless and expressionless throughout the whole business - except mentioning that he had always known who Tarapmoranis was. The pilot, who had been glowering after a brief but passionate diatribe early in the discussion, withdrew to the cockpit and locked the door behind him.

HK-47, the psychotic assassin droid Tarapmoranis had picked up on Tatooine, had expressed admiration for his alter ego. The astromech had not offered much of an opinion at all. Bastila had weathered the crisis well, deflecting what criticisms she could and proffering half-hearted support of Tarapmoranis, then excused herself quickly. Only the man himself remained, looking unusually thoughtful.

"Got anything to add, Ordo?"

"Huh?" The Mandalorian shook off his own unnaturally pensive mood. "What, you mean about this Darth Malak business?"

Tarapmoranis folded his arms behind his head and leaned back against the wall. "I don't think you'll have any difficulties traveling with a Dark Lord of the Sith, but I'm curious about your opinion anyway."

Canderous grunted. "Yeah, you're right. I couldn't care less about whether the Sith or the Republic win this war, or the morality of what the Jedi Council decided to do with a captured prisoner-of-war. You've proven yourself a warrior of honor, and I am proud to fight alongside you."

Tarapmoranis' eyes glowed gold for a moment. He glanced off thoughtfully into the distance. "I suppose we were friends once," he said after a long pause. "Revan and I."

"Perhaps. Battle has a way of forging bonds between even the oddest of folk." Briefly, he reflected on the relationships he had formed with the _Ebon Hawk_'s crew, but quickly dismissed it. "Whatever happens, whoever you're fighting, I'm your man."

It was hard to tell if Tarapmoranis smiled, what with his metal prosthetic jaw, but it was generally assumed that the glint in his eyes replaced the more traditional smile. "Good. I could always use a strong warrior at my side, especially if the others decide to - well, never mind that for the moment." He stepped forward and offered Canderous his hand, which the other gripped and shook firmly.

_Besides_, the Mandalorian thought, _I want to see how this thing between you and Revan turns out._ Whoever the greater warrior was, it would certainly be a battle worth watching.


	8. Chapter 8

7: Korriban

When he stepped outside of Dreshdae and set foot on the naked ground of Korriban, he felt at once that though he could not remember this place, it remembered him.

Korriban was definitely a distinctive place - mostly rock and dirt, worn down by the wind over the millennia into strange shapes, forbidding mountains and steep valleys. The only animals that lived on its surface were tough and unfriendly, and those that lived deep underground made the surface ones look as congenial as gizka. Outside of the Sith academy and the colony of Dreshdae, nothing sentient lived on Korriban - or could.

After a few days, he was a little dubious about the sentience of those inside the academy, particularly the three hopefuls he was competing against for the yearly opening. The only girl, Lashowe, had plenty of arrogance and vitriol, but no practical ideas that would make proper use of either; though she was undeniably brighter than Shaardan, a male human whose fixation with Sith lightning would probably lead him to electrify his own brain cells into oblivion (if he hadn't already). The only one who showed any promise, apart from himself of course, was Mekel, who knew it - and consequently had an exaggerated view of his own ability.

The masters, Uthar Wynn and Yuthura Ban, were little better, somehow managing not to recognize a Dark Lord of the Sith when they saw one. He nearly ripped into a companion once or twice for their ill-timed expressions of disgust, but no one seemed to notice anything amiss. He considered once announcing to the whole school that he had Bastila Shan on his starship, and that he was really Darth Malak, just to see if they were really as oblivious as they seemed, but even if the Sith did nothing about it, one of his companions certainly would.

It was difficult, keeping his plans hidden from them, but he was confident that he could continue the charade of helping the Republic until he reached the Star Forge. By that time, Bastila would have finally given in to the Dark Side, and with her Battle Meditation he would have little trouble killing Revan. Then with the power of the Star Forge's fleet at his fingertips, the Republic would fall to his armies, and the things he had dreamed of doing every hour since he had first begun to realize his real strength would begin to take place.

In the meantime, several obstacles remained to be surmounted. Though assured of the support of the Mandalorian and the droids, the loyalty of everyone else was clearly in doubt. The Cathar woman had a promising wealth of anger and hatred foundering inside her, if only he could convince her to release it. The Wookiee had a life-debt to him, but a far more binding emotional attachment to his juvenile friend. Onasi and the Twi'lek brat were practically lost causes, especially since the objects of their hate - Saul Karath and Lena - were either vindicated or dead. And he was beginning to suspect the old man was a lot sharper than he let on, and not likely to abandon his antiquated notions about the Republic and Sith.

None of them, not even Bastila, posed any true threat to him - on their own merits or as a group. Revan, however, had always been his superior - a fact would have made him gnash his teeth, if he'd had any teeth to gnash - and since she had _not_ been near death, brought to Dantooine with only a Force bond keeping her alive, memory-wiped and given a crash-course refresher class in Jedi tactics, she was definitely his superior now, without even factoring in her innate gift of strategy. But he had been studying her methods closely since he had been given this assignment, and he had come to a surprising conclusion: the reigning Dark Lord of the Sith had not fully devoted herself to the Dark Side. It was the only explanation for her reluctance to resort to the most effective (and brutal) methods of combat, her generosity toward her army and the planets she conquered, and her limited use of the Star Forge.

Here on Korriban, bathed in the infinite power of the Dark Side, he could only marvel at such squeamishness; and revel in the knowledge that when the time came, he would crush his former master and claim the title that had been denied him his entire life.


	9. Chapter 9

8: Lehon

It's a funny feeling, waiting on the brink of something you always knew would come about, yet spent every minute in between the time you first knew and now doubting that it would really come together.

She stands calmly on the roof of the Temple, barefaced, wearing a short gray tunic, dark gray trousers and a closely-tailored gray robe, with her two lightsabers clipped neatly to her belt. Malak never understood the purpose of her mask, her robes, her _mission_. She wants him to realize how little he understands her, because fool though he may be, he is not such a fool as to think her one as well. He will see there is a design to her methods, a reason for her acting the way she has, and maybe whatever remains of his brain will put two and two together.

Not that she's holding her breath.

An hour ago, she felt him and three other Force-sensitives enter the Temple. She doesn't need to think to know their names; they rise up when a thought so much as brushes them: Bastila Shan, Jolee Bindo, Juhani. She has watched him closely since she discovered he had not died at Chibias, and she knows everywhere he has been, everything he has done, every one of his companions. Considering "Senn"'s social skills, she probably knows them better than he does.

She is not surprised it has taken him over an hour to reach her, as the Temple has not been empty since she and Malak first began this war almost three years ago. The students in the Temple are some of those with her on the Star Forge, the ones who have a dangerous interest in the Dark Side, and the ability to do something with it. Whoever makes it to the Temple roof will be the more dangerous enemy, and she will take them out herself.

Part of her reminds her of when she did not think in terms of executions, assassinations, domination and intergalactic power. The remembrance hurts, but unlike all her predecessors, she knows the day she silences that part is the day she fails.

Her ambition has never been to rule the Republic - only an idiot would want such power - but to protect it, turn it into something great, something that would not fall when challenged by those that lurk outside the galaxy's borders. A tyrant could not do such a thing, and a tyrant is what she would become if she refused to consider what this ambition has cost her, and those around her.

The poor, pathetically blind Jedi Masters prattled about a Jedi's life being sacrifice, without coming within a million miles of what sacrifices would really be necessary to save the Republic. Malak dismissed their millennia of experience, completely missing the fact that if something lasts millennia then there is _something_ to it. She saw it. She turned her back on the Jedi, too high-minded and squeamish to face what was necessary. She took on the facade only of the Sith, too arrogant and egotistical to see the shortsightedness of their own strategies. The mask she wears disgusts her. The robes she wears chafe her. The Star Forge she runs unsettles her. And every night, she sees the tens and hundreds of millions who have died because of her. Only her regrets keep her from the Dark Side. Only the knowledge that it was necessary keeps her from killing herself.

Faintly, through highly-tuned senses, she can hear the door to the roof opening. She recognizes the footfall of those approaching, and breathes deeply. Her old apprentice is coming, as loud, clumsy, thick-headed and arrogant as the last time they met, his "reprogramming" at the Jedi Council's hand notwithstanding. The person to his right is agitated, uneasy and deeply tainted by the Dark Side - Bastila, suffering from the effects of her well-intentioned yet misguided bond. The person to his left, by contrast, is focused on the present, self-controlled, and unshakably devoted to a light-tinged gray alignment - Jolee Bindo. Behind him stalks the Cathar, tumultuous inside but determined to hold to the Light Side that keeps her emotions in check.

Once more, she reviews her attack plans, when the inevitable battle comes to pass. She rests her hands on the hilts of her lightsabers, but does not draw them. The shield attached to her wrist, specifically designed by her own hands to provide incomparable protection against lightsabers and Force attacks, remains unactivated. She stands calmly on the roof of the Temple, a small piece of her still amazed that she has come to be here at all.

A/N: Fini!

I realize i'm leaving a lot unfinished...The trouble with a premise like this is there are so many questions raised - would Malak be recognized? How would Revan handle the search for Malak? Would (s)he track him down earlier than Malak did Revan? What different decisions would Malak make? Would he choose LS or DS? Would he get the same companions? In this instance, i chose to stick pretty close to the game's plot, with some obvious changes. After this, however, there isn't even a basic plot-line to follow any more. I'm not completely abandoning it, however! I am working on a sequel, but as i haven't even finished the prologue yet - and my finished stories to incomplete stories ratio is terribly depressing - i can't make any promises about it coming out any time soon.

I started this story for my own enjoyment, after some conversations with my sister about what would happen if a gray-sided Revan conquered the Republic, and when i liked how it turned out, i decided to publish it here on . I'm thrilled that other people enjoyed it as well! Special thanks to **rockforthecross74** and **Kurlan Aank** for your positive reviews! Having regular readers is a new experience for me, and i've enjoyed it a lot. I hope you like this final chapter.

And finally, the people, places and things mentioned herein are the property of Bioware/Lucas Arts - though the personalities of Malak and Revan are mostly mine.

1 Corinthians 1:26-31


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